narrow my eyes and I am wondering if I remembered to
put my sunglasses in my bag.
It was a rush, packing up.
When the police team confirmed that the light bulb
was missing from my house, everything seemed to step
up a gear. My landlord said he hadn’t sent anyone round;
hadn’t given anyone access to a key. It made no sense…
Tom was grilled. The neighbour with a spare key
was grilled. My colleagues at the paper were questioned
too. Every decent person I know seems suddenly to be
a suspect while the real culprit is heaven knows where.
But then – a new complication. The police discovered
that a junior member of staff at the estate agents has been
secretly breaking protocol for over a year. She’s been let-
ting workmen take keys to rental homes without being
accompanied, to save her time. Strictly against the rules.
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Teresa Driscoll
I’ve had a few repairs over the past year – central heating
and so on. It basically means anyone could have copied
a key to my house. There was a huge meltdown over
it – disciplinary action and a flurry of activity to change
locks for a string of properties.
The police keep me updated but don’t seem to have
any real leads yet. The cheese wire enclosed with the
flowers is readily available on the net. A cheap import
from China with hundreds of reviews online. I checked
them myself. One couple said they bought a set with
handles to cut their wedding cake, would you believe. I
was shocked; I had absolutely no idea that you could buy
it so easily. That anyone would want to.
There were no fingerprints at the house or on the
cake box. The courier was paid cash with a false name
for the delivery and there is no joy yet regarding the fake
florist’s business card left on my car. Seems my ‘stalker’ is clever. Going to a lot of trouble. DI Sanders seems certain
they’re reading my columns and using the information
in them to wind me up. The question is why. Who the
hell have I upset so badly?
Leanne and I have rather worn ourselves out with the
dilemma over whether we need to move Mum to a dif-
ferent nursing home. It was Mum who chose Devon – to
be near the sea – rather than London. She likes it. The
police theory is that this man, whoever he is, doesn’t know
where she is. Was just twisting the knife by mentioning
her in his message after reading my columns.
I really don’t know what to think; I just want to be
sure that my mother is safe.
Tom meantime is losing all patience with the police
and has arranged for me to see some private detective
tomorrow. A guy based in Exeter who comes highly
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I Will Make You Pay
recommended. Like Leanne, Tom wants the reassurance
of extra security while I’m on my own. I think he would
have preferred me to move in with him immediately but
I’m still not keen. I mean – he has to work in London so
often these days that it wouldn’t really be a solution. He
can’t be responsible for me 24/7; I wouldn’t want that. And
I’m not ready to live with him. With anyone. Not again…
No. For now, this Dorset house is a better option.
It’s like Fort Knox. Downside of being in the money, I
guess – worrying about burglars. Though heaven knows
how I’m going to juggle the geography once I’m back at
work. The office for the South Devon Informer is between Plymouth and Ivybridge, about twenty minutes from my
rented house. But it’s a long haul from Dorset.
‘How long did you say you’re taking off work?’
I turn to Leanne. It’s as if she can read my mind – or
maybe my expression. And I’ve been going on about it
because it’s the thing that is bugging me the most. My
editor has insisted I take all the holiday I have spare. Lieu days – the lot. He says it’s sensible all round. But I feel
this is like giving in – like punishing me.
‘If it were up to me, I’d be back at work tomorrow.’
‘ Stubborn.’
‘No. Not stubborn. I just want to see the Maple Field
House campaign stories through. They’re planning the
demolition right now. There’s loads happening and I don’t
see why I should have my life so disrupted. Have him
stop me doing what I love.’
‘It’s only temporary. Just go with it, Alice. Please. Keep
your head down and keep yourself safe until the police
find this guy. Like I said, you can always come and stay
in London, if you don’t mind the chaos.’
‘You know I hate London.’
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Teresa Driscoll
‘Great journalist you make. A reporter who hates
London.’
‘And what does that mean? The world doesn’t revolve
around the capital, you know. There are really good stories
everywhere. Just as important. More so, actually, because
they get overlooked. Never make it into the nationals.’
Leanne gives me one of her glares.
‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to rant.’ It’s another thing my
mother and sister tease me about. On one of your soapboxes.
We are nearing the nursing home now, and I get the
familiar contradiction of love and dread all mixed up
together. I love seeing my mother. Hate seeing her here.
And I thought it was cancer that smokers needed to
be afraid of…
* * *
Inside we sign into the visitors’ book and I’m pleased to
see a member of staff posted on reception, monitoring the
main door and checking guest passes. I’m reassured yet again
about the security in place. The back door has a special
lock which requires a PIN. All of this was explained when
we first checked out the place for Mum two months back.
‘Your mother is safe with us.’ The woman with Wendy
on her badge is smiling. ‘We look after all our guests.
Security is always a priority.’
I smile back, but am afraid to speak in case my voice
cracks.
Leanne is holding the bunch of peonies and I look at
them – a gorgeous soft pink – remembering our garden
back in Hastings when we were little. Peonies in every
colour you can imagine.
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I Will Make You Pay
Mind the flowers with your tennis, you girls. You mind the peonies…
‘Ready?’ Leanne takes a deep breath for us both. She
touches my arm and I just nod, trying not to think of that
single flower on my car. The peonies tied with cheese
wire in the cake box…
My mother is in her room, sitting in a deep red, high-
backed chair, looking out on to the garden. There’s a book
on the small table next to her and a glass of water. She is
dressed in a lovely pale aqua blouse and matching skirt, her
hair up in a neat chignon. It is only as she turns and smiles that the evidence of her new reality slaps my face. The
heaving of her chest with every breath. The little tubes into her nose. The oxygen parapher
nalia alongside her chair.
‘Hello, my darlings.’ She is beaming but has to pause
to take a few breaths. Just three words can be a strain these days. She smiles but I read the frustration in her eyes that
she wants to say so much more but cannot.
And so we move across to kiss her cheek in turn,
and she reaches out towards the flowers. Next we play
the game where for the most part we talk and she lis-
tens – joining in when she feels that she can. Each of us
pretending that this is normal. Two daughters filling the
silence because their mother cannot talk and breathe at
the same time anymore.
‘Gorgeous, aren’t they? Every colour I see, I think
– that’s my new favourite. Until I see the next colour
Leanne finds.’ My voice has this almost sing-song tone.
Trying too hard. I pause to check myself.
‘Me too. Though I have to say this baby pink is hard to
beat.’ Leanne moves forward so our mother can stroke the
petals for a while. Then she points to the corner. A shelf
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Teresa Driscoll
with books and two empty vases. Leanne nods and moves
across to busy herself with the arrangement near the little
sink. She takes a pair of scissors from her handbag, and I
think how typical of my sister. To remember to bring scissors.
We chatter, the two sisters, about our lives, editing
out anything but the pleasant. I do not, of course, men-
tion my stalker. Instead we say that Leanne and I fancied
a little break together and so are at the Dorset house,
catching up.
‘Not falling out?’ My mother’s expression says more
than her words. She has learned that she can manage just
three at a time. Words. Her speech is like waltzing now.
One, two, three…
‘Not too much. I haven’t broken anything yet. Smashed
any mirrors.’
My mother is almost laughing but has to stop herself.
The breathing even more of a struggle when she’s excited.
Try to keep things fairly neutral, the nurse said once. I know it’s hard, but too much excitement can bring on an episode.
I wondered what she meant by an episode. We soon
found out.
My mother has end-stage COPD. It means her lung
disease is in its final chapter. The oxygen is merely buying
us all some time. Soon – we don’t quite know when – no
amount of oxygen will be enough.
Meantime, an ‘episode’ can see temporary transfer to
hospital. The nursing home can cope with day-to-day
care but doesn’t seem to want to be held responsible for
anything too serious.
We are equipped to handle your mother’s condition while
she is stable, the senior nurse told us in a meeting. But you know that we don’t offer end-of-life care here. We’ll need to talk again if… well – when things change.
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I Will Make You Pay
So, quietly, Leanne and I have been looking into the
local hospice and arguing over whether London – near
my sister – would be better. Working out secretly where
my mother should die.
I try so hard to put that future, that inevitability out
of my mind – to spend every visit in the present – but it
is a trick I have yet to learn. The cruel paradox for me
especially is my mother is still so very beautiful; she looks strangely, almost hauntingly well in other ways. Her skin
is good. Her hair shines.
I think of her packet of cigarettes on the kitchen
counter and want to go back in time and snatch them
away from her.
Instead I chatter, and when Leanne has finished the
flowers, I suggest we find a nice spot in the garden so
that I can read to her.
‘This book. Yes?’ I pick up the faded copy of Wuthering
Heights and check to find a postcard marking the chapter I reached when I visited last week.
Leanne fetches a wheelchair from the corridor and we
transfer my mother easily between us, placing the oxygen
in the little pouch hanging off the back of the chair. We
weave our way out of the room and along the corridors, to
fetch a nurse who uses her pass to let us out into the garden.
Good, I think. They are true to their word; being
careful about security.
Outside we find a bench for me and Leanne, overlook-
ing the fountain centrepiece of the garden. A spot where
you can just catch sight of the sea in the distance. And
so I pick up where I left off last week. It is the chapter
where Heathcliff runs away.
We stay in the garden for maybe an hour – Leanne
fetching tea and biscuits as an interlude. My mother’s
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Teresa Driscoll
breathing is still laboured but seems a tad steadier outside.
Maybe that is my imagination, or maybe it is because she
knows that she will not have to talk. Or walk. Or do
anything much. She just watches the fountain and listens
to me reading.
‘Nice breeze today.’
One, two, three…
‘Yes, Mum. Just enjoy it. Close your eyes if you like.
Just listen. You know me. I love the sound of my own
voice.’
A smile. My mother has the loveliest smile…
* * *
Later, back at the Dorset house, I have the words of
Wuthering Heights mixed with the tinkle of the fountain, all echoing in my head as a text comes in from Tom, urging me not to be late for the private investigator.
I turn the words over in my head. Private investigator.
I have already played the journalist. Checked him out
online. Matthew Hill made a bit of a name for himself,
helping to solve the case of a missing girl a while back.
I can’t help wondering what precisely Tom thinks he is
going to be able to do to help me.
But this is not just about me now. I close my eyes to
picture peonies. The single flower on my car and the
severed flowers in the box. I need to ask this man – this
Matthew Hill – if he can keep my mother safe too.
48
CHAPTER EIGHT
Him – before
‘Are you OK?’
In his dream there is someone shaking him awake
in his cave. He thinks it must be his gran. She went out
much earlier. But when he opens his eyes, it’s not the cave.
The room is too bright. A searing light hurting his eyes.
‘It’s all right. You just fell asleep again.’
The voice is familiar and he looks up. Not a cave – but
his classroom. Miss Henderley. She is sitting on the edge
of one of the desks. Everyone else is gone.
He looks around the room, not understanding. Next
he sees three faces at the window, laughing at him. Bruce
and Luke and Helena. Miss Henderley turns and waves
her arms to signal that they should move away.
‘Don’t take any notice of them.’
‘Is it home time? Do I need to go to after-school club?’
He sits up straight. His arm feels a bit weird where his
head was leaning on it. Also there is an odd lump right
in the middle of his stomach. As if he has eaten his food
&nb
sp; too fast. He can’t work out if he is hungry. Or too full.
Or has a tummy ache.
‘It’s OK. You’re not in trouble. I just want to have a
little chat before you go out to play.’
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Teresa Driscoll
‘I didn’t fall asleep. I was pretending.’
‘It’s OK. Like I said, you’re not in any kind of trouble.
It’s just I’m a bit worried about you. It’s not the first time this has happened. Falling asleep in class, I mean. Is there
something wrong? Something at home? Is there anything
you’re worried about? Want to talk to me about? I was
wondering if we should maybe have a little chat with
your gran when she picks you up.’
‘No. Don’t do that. I’m fine.’
‘I had a look in the book and it’s always Thursdays
that you seem so tired. Do you do sport or something
on a Wednesday evening. Swimming lessons? Football?
Something like that? Or do you stay up watching some-
thing on television on a Wednesday night?’
‘No. Nothing like that. I’m fine. Can I go out to play
now?’
‘So – is it maths? Are you worried about that? I know
we do a lot of maths on Thursdays but you’re honestly
doing really well with your work. Your reading and your
maths are both very good. There’s really nothing for you
to worry about. I want you to know that.’
‘I’m not worried.’ This is a lie. He’s worried about a
million things.
He looks down to see sauce on his school sweatshirt.
He remembers now that they had shepherd’s pie for lunch.
So it is the afternoon. Afternoon break. Nearly home
time. Yes. After-school club. Then home.
He is all at once remembering other things too. The
banging on the door last night. Dark. Late.
You in there? Someone in there? I know you’re in there…
He remembers suddenly needing the toilet when the
banging started. Sitting in his bed and being worried
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I Will Make You Pay
that he might make a mess. Thinking about it makes the
feeling come back.
‘I need the toilet, please.’
‘Off you go, then. I’ll see you later. After-school club.’
Miss Henderley pauses. ‘I’ll look out for your gran. Tell
her how well you’re doing with your work.’
* * *
The rest of the afternoon seems to go on for ages. The
after-school club also drags. He normally likes it but not
I Will Make You Pay (ARC) Page 5